The White Nothingness of Snow
by JinxedSydney
Summary: Winter had come, and with it, death charged the air. He tipped the hood of his cloak back, snow instantly flecking his dark hair. She remembered what Yoren said the day he hacked off her hair, about Gendry being different. He did protect her. But the sting of his long-ago rejection still sang like a hammer against steel. (TV canon, Season 7 spoilers. Gendry/Arya centric)
1. Chapter 1

Normally, she did not spend much time on the battlement, pacing like Sansa, reminding her of their father. Winter had come, and with it, death charged the air. The frigid blasts rattled shutters on their hinges. Even the three wolves within Winterfell's walls felt the chill in their bones.

Arya Stark hid her face among the fur collars when the riders first appeared, dark blots materializing through the snow and forest on The Kingsroad. She watched as two riders emerged. It wasn't until they were nearly upon the North Gate that she realized something was wrong—she could practically smell their fear when their lathered horses slowed near the guards. The larger man struggled to keep his reins, his mount sidestepping into the snow banks as the guards approached.

"Halt!" The guard stood a head shorter than the shoulder of the horse whose headstall he grabbed. "State your business."

"We've come from Eastwatch by the Sea," yelled the smaller companion. "The dead are coming!"

Though his words lost their harshness in the wind, Arya clamped her jaw together. He must be wrong. She moved from her place alongside the Broken Tower towards the gate. Jon was going to Eastwatch, according to the last raven, then beyond The Wall.

"What are you going on about?" The guard stepped towards the smaller horse, while another guard stood behind him. Neither had drawn their weapons or flanked these strangers. Arya would have to see to their training.

"I've been beyond The Wall." The tall one swayed in his saddle, his hood hiding his face. "We've been riding for days to warn everyone that the dead are on the move, on orders from the King of the North and Queen Daenerys. She came with her dragons and saved him."

"Hold!" the guard yelled when the captured horse pranced, causing both horses to swing their bodies wide and frantic.

The big rider slipped from his mount and knocked both guards out cold in two swings. A man of action. Could prove useful in the ranks. Arya couldn't help her grin as she climbed down the narrow stairs near the gate, new guards scrambling to assemble on the visitors. She held up her gloved hand to stop the ill-trained, yet well-intentioned, soldiers. Both riders were hindered by layers of furs. She held her cloak tight with one hand, the other resting on Needle's pommel.

"When did you last see the King of the North?" She kept her face tucked away from the wind, scanning the duo more closely. Maybe Jon was a few days behind these men.

"Days ago, m'lady." The hooded rider spoke, heaving pale breaths into the air. He glanced at the unconscious guards, his gloved hand still curled. His comrade dismounted and stood next to him. "Four, no five. We've been riding since. I can't remember which day it is." His hood shook back and forth.

"Dragons, you say?" She saw the sword at his hip, frozen to its scabbard.

The rider's broad shoulders were evident, even under the furs. He tipped the hood of his cloak back, snow instantly flecking his dark hair. His beard was short, just past to the top of his fur-trimmed shirt, and frozen over. Puffs of white air curled from his bow-shaped lips. But those eyes. She remembered what Yoren said the day he hacked off her hair, about Gendry being different. He did protect her. But the sting of his long-ago rejection still sang like a hammer against steel.

Arya Stark retreated into herself and focused inward to No One. She did not have time for this—for him, or their past. Yet, she fought to still her breathing, strangling the clasp on her cloak.

"Yes, Queen Daenerys had three of them." Gendry maintained his distance, blinking hard in the snowfall, flakes crowding his eyelashes. "The Night King killed one in battle. Our men and the King barely survived."

She cared not for the woman, nor her dragons, despite Old Nan's stories. "What of the King of the North?"

"Injured, but alive, m'lady." Gendry squinted and blinked heavily, lolling to one leg. "They are on a ship to Kings Landing."

"Kings Landing?"

"Yes, they have to deliver that _thing_ they captured to Cersei."

"Why?" The fire inside Arya kindled—at Daenerys for keeping Jon, at this harbinger's news because it heralded Jon's postponed return.

"I'm not entirely sure, m'lady. Something about convincing her to fight against the dead, though I believe she will try and kill them."

"Why didn't she bring him here?" Arya shouted, tossing her hands wide. Her cloak fell away from her face. "He belongs in Winterfell."

Gendry's face relaxed and snowflakes stuck to his cheeks. He walked forward.

She spun towards the nervous guards at the North Gate, now helping their injured friends, before he could say anything. "Show them in. I will find Lady Stark so that they may relay their news. Bar the gates behind them."

"Gates won't stop the dead, m'lady," Gendry yelled to her back.

She heard, but headed straight for Sansa's rooms, breathing through her nose. It was not right that he was here—that he was alive after so many years. Yet, the tiny voice who would never give into No One rejoiced at the sight of Gendry. Arya shoved its delight into a dark corner.

True to her mission, she retrieved her sister to receive their guests, spreading the word to gather the lords under the roof of Winterfell so that all could hear the information. She stopped at her room to discard the heavy cloak and regarded her reflection.

"I am No One." But even the gray eyes in the image didn't believe her. "I am Arya Stark."

She walked on her tiptoes down the hallway, so the soles of her boots missed the stone steps. _Quiet as a shadow._ There was no need of her presence—Sansa handled Winterfell matters perfectly fine without her input or opinions. Yet, she slid along the walls towards the Great Hall. _Calm as still water._ Voices grew louder, and she could hear Gendry speak.

"As I said, your Grace, there were too many to count. When your brother commanded me to return to Eastwatch, I ran until I couldn't run anymore."

"It is wise to obey a king's command." Sansa probably held her folded hands in her lap.

"Aye. He was wounded when he returned. Said something about 'Benjen' and Winterfell." His heavy boots shuffled on the floor. "I figured he wanted his sister warned, so I left straightaway, with the Queen's permission. They set sail for King's Landing as we left."

"Winterfell thanks your expediency."

Arya leaned onto the wall, hidden in the shadows, just able to see past the lords and little Lady Lyanna Mormont. Sansa regarded Gendry with her expected airs, formal and cold, as questions peppered the man.

"Has the King of the North bent the knee to the pretender?"

"Does she have dragons?"

"Why did he go to Kings Landing?"

"How many are there?"

Gendry tried to keep up with the inquisition, his head turning this way and that, never able to answer before another demand was yelled. His beard had lost its frost and was in need of a trim.

Finally, he turned back to the Lady of Winterfell. "Your Grace?"

Sansa straightened in her chair, her chain necklace clinking against the open circlet on her chest. "Continue, Mr. Waters."

Arya bit down on her grin. Leave it to Sansa to put the baseborn bastard in his place, despite his news. She slipped next to a squire as Gendry answered the best he could, facing each person who'd ordered his attention.

His hands squeezed and released his cloak when he spoke of the White Walkers, their endless numbers and undead polar bear. Gendry's brows lifted when he talked of Jon and his face tightened at the accusation that Jon had succumbed to the Targaryen woman.

"He is the King of the North." He raised his voice above the dissention. "I would follow him to the ends of Westeros and beyond and _never_ question his decisions." Even from the other end of the room, Arya could see the muscles in Gendry's jaw flex over and over. For a moment, he looked positively murderous to the lord who'd made the suggestion, his blue eyes unblinking, shoulders squared.

With a measured breath, she quashed the joy inside again. There was no time for anything other than preparation. The sooner Jon returned to Winterfell, the better.

The muttering grew as the lords and lady filed out, commenting to one another their opinions. Arya pressed her back flat against the wall, working in small steps to conceal herself as she inched towards her pack and her past.

Sansa sat unmoving, until left with Gendry and Bran. "Would you mind sitting? I'd like to speak with you about my brother."

"Of course," Gendry mumbled, dropping to a wooden seat. His took a shaky breath and scrubbed one hand across his face. The same eyes that had just given a deadly stare now took a long blink. He yawned. "My apologies."

"Have you eaten?"

"No, your Grace."

"Your companion is alright. He is being tended to by our maester. Take some ale, please." Sansa nodded to the pitcher and tankard. Gods forbid that she should pour for the exhausted lowborn. Arya stuffed down her irritation alongside the joy.

Gendry poured himself a cup and finished it in two long draws. "Many thanks. We left with little supplies and ran out of food yesterday. Everything was frozen anyways."

Arya thought of Hot Pie in his inn, slaving over the stove. Her mouth watered.

"You know our sister." Bran's voice startled Arya seconds before her heart leapt like a rabbit chased by a dog.

She drew her nostrils wide, dragging her breath with deliberation. The last thing she needed was Bran digging in her past. She blew through her lips when he didn't continue.

Gendry warily placed the tankard back in its place. The fire crackled. He looked at Bran and the wheeled chair, the slightest friction in his jaw. "Aye. A long time ago, I knew Arya."

Her name from his mouth, years coming, made tears prick. She shook them away.

Sansa leaned forward. "You cannot hide from my brother. He is the three-eyed raven, able to see the past and into the future."

"That would've been helpful to have before we went north of The Wall." He caught Sansa's glare and added, "Your Grace."

"She was a boy," Bran said. "But you protected her."

Arya clenched her teeth.

"I knew she was a girl." Gendry straightened.

Sansa's face screwed into beautiful confusion. "A boy?"

"Aye. We were bound for The Wall."

Arya wasn't ready for this. No—she didn't want it to come to light. She slipped from her hiding place. "It is a story for another time."

Gendry jerked his head toward her and stumbled as he stood. "You are alive," he whispered.

"Yes." Mental elation was beaten into submission. She conjured his denial, its venomous words stifled any other response. Nor did he deserve any more words. But he had information she needed. "How did you come to know our brother?"

"After the Brotherhood sold me—"

She advanced one small step. "I do not care about your excuses, only for news of Jon." Her hand choked the knife in her belt to still the war inside, equally clamoring for physical contact to time gone by—though each voice stipulated vastly different consequences.

He cleared his throat and flexed his shoulders back. "Sir Davos brought me to him on Dragonstone."

Had she not been trained, she wouldn't have seen his eyes narrow for a moment. But she was trained. And she did see. She was never one to back down from battle. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ No One was much more convenient for this task, but memories clawed forward.

Arya looked at the man before her. He was not as tall as she remembered, but most certainly stronger. Dirt settled into the creases on his forehead, and the blush on his grimy cheeks spread towards his ears the longer they stared at one another.

"I have a son." Bran leaned forward in his chair. "You have a daughter. We'll join our houses."

"What?" Sansa swiveled to face their brother.

Arya fought the heat rising from her neckline, switching her gaze to Bran, who looked at Gendry and past him at the same time.

Her brother's dark gaze dropped to hers. "You are too young to hate the world so much."

Bile crept up her throat. Everything she had said or would say, Bran knew. He watched their father's execution through her eyes, through Sansa's. His sight reached to Braavos, to Riverrun. It saw every triumph, heard each prayer, echoed the rejections she used to fuel the malice inside. And this … man in front of her. She despised him above all others, for she had offered him everything—her family, herself, the little bit of love she kept hidden.

"He has not made your list," Bran said as a log popped in the hearth. He relaxed back into his chair, shoulders sagging. Beside him, Sansa bobbed her pretty head back and forth between her siblings.

Gendry still gaped at Arya, as though she'd disappear if he looked away. "Your brother … he's shorter than I thought he'd be." The right side of his lips tipped upwards.

Arya kept her chin still. _Quick as a snake._

She left the Great Hall and kept walking until the white nothingness of the snow filled her mind more than the ache crowded her heart.

* * *

 _Many thanks to Winterlyn Dow and her cheerleading skills. I fully intended this to be a one-shot, but the characters are not listening to me. Stay tuned for more. ~JS  
_


	2. Chapter 2

When she left Winterfell and did not return that evening, it was not cause for panic. She could disappear for days and return with a covey of quail or a string of fish.

Despite the rumors, in general, Arya did not spend her time honing the edge of her blades or stalking the crypts below Winterfell. She made herself as useful as possible, helping the guards with fighting techniques, hunting, or helping haul and organize what little supplies were brought. Anything to keep her from the bookkeeping or menial tasks Sansa oversaw. With her hands busy, Arya kept one eye on the horizon for any ravens—news from Jon.

But this trip, straight from the Great Hall and a collision with her past, she plodded through the snow, far past the Hunter's Gate, no direction in particular. Her feet moved forward, stumbling at times. _She steals on little mice feet, but a man hears._

Arya's shoulder thumped into the nearest tree trunk, sending snow cascading down her cloak. Her head bowed. Jaqen's voice caressed her ears on the wind, his lips seemingly on her lobes, though his self far, far away.

"Valar morgulis," she whispered into the storm. Though beaten and stabbed, the House of Black and White still beckoned her submission. To what end, she did not know. Arya did not feign blind obedience to their order—she was a Stark and she was home.

A hare bounded by, shaking her from her revelries. She refused to return empty-handed. It was irrefutably more difficult to snare a rabbit with no leather throng, but Arya brought four to the cook the next day.

Once in her room, Arya eased down onto the chair to remove her boots. Devoid of a fire, since she gave no forewarning of her return and waved off the chambermaid, her breaths showed in short, white puffs. Sleep, above all, pulled her under the soft furs on her bed, clothes shucked to the floor. Exhaustion finally dulled the roar of the previous day's guest. Her closed eyelids mocked the sunlight through a crack in the shutter. It would wait.

He would wait.

She heard her name faintly at first. Had she even slept?

"Arya, wake up." Sansa spoke as she gathered clothing from the floor. "There's been a raven from Jon."

Her first attempt to speak was interrupted by a cough. Arya's head hurt worse than waking on the stone floor next to the pool of the House, lump on her temple, disciplined for insolence.

"Here." Sansa pressed a cool cup to Arya's lips, hands steady when the younger woman drew the water down in long gulps.

"Thank you." Arya peered around the room, now warmed by the low fire. "How long have I been asleep?"

"It's only afternoon now."

Arya swiped her face across her heavy eyes and sat up. "A raven?"

"Yes. Jon's coming." Sansa looked to the window.

"You're leaving something out."

The thick skirts swished as Sansa stood and paced towards the flames. "He's bringing Daenerys Targaryen. And her dragons." The last sentence was spoken so quietly, that Arya strained to hear her sister's words.

Against the firelight, Sansa's hair burned like the sun. Their father's words rushed back at Arya. _You may be as different as the Sun and the Moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her as she needs you._ Before Arya stood the Sun, and she the Moon, both wolves through and through. It would take more than a dragon to part one from another and cleft their brother-king from the walls of Winterfell again.

"Help me get dressed," Arya said, knowing her sister needed the distraction. She would never admit to anyone the way Sansa brushed her hair, fingers nimbly working small braids, made her regret every time she'd ever terrorized her sister in their youth.

They descended to Sansa's study together, Arya always a half step behind. Bran waited for them. Sansa handed over the tiny scroll and sat, her leather seat squeaking. Arya reread the words thrice, the ends of the paper pinched in her fingers to keep from shaking. Jon would be home in days. She could touch him, see his stupid smile, punch him for bringing an outsider who was thirsty for the Iron Throne.

Bran shifted in his chair. "He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire. There must be one more. The dragon has three heads."

Arya glanced up from the message. Half of what Bran said made no sense. The other half hurt too much. _He has not made your list._

"Well, her dragons only have two now," Sansa said, one eyebrow tipping up. Her hand extended to retrieve the scroll from Arya. "Were there any signs of boar or stags?"

"I will go out again."

Sansa looked up from under her lashes. "Not until the morning." She looked exactly like their mother, her wrinkled forehead and pulled mouth.

"Jon is the prince that was promised," Bran insisted.

"You say that like we should know what it means." Arya shifted on her feet.

Bran's dark eyes stared at his Moon sister. "I cannot tell you other than what I know."

She groaned. "I am hungry. I am going to the kitchen. Maybe one of the superstitious hags will know about Jon being a king _and_ a prince."

With that, Arya turned and left, despite the sigh that let loose from Sansa's lips. She took the path through the main courtyard. Near the Bell Tower, she stopped, watching the children chase the loose chickens, their mothers busy scraping and salting hides on the stretchers. Closer to the kitchens, young boys tended to the horses in the stables, the doors patched together with broken and burnt boards, scavenged from the Winterfell ruins. Sansa and Jon had cobbled it together before she and Bran returned.

Her father murmured into her mind again. " _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."_ The store rooms were meager, but would feed people enough. Together, the Stark pack would endure the long winter.

A hammer sang against steel from the smithy and shot through Arya's ease. Across the courtyard, it pounded again and again and again, steady as a heartbeat, with marked determination. There was no door and she remained still until the beating stopped and the man straightened.

His arms were covered in black leather, binding strips holding the sleeves close so Gendry wouldn't be burned by the forge. He held the blade up to the clouds, flipping it to one side, then the next, to determine its weight and edge. Placing the sword back into the coals, he retrieved another blade, metal glowing angry red. Gendry pummeled the metal, until inspection. Satisfied with this creation, he sunk it into a bucket of water, steam blasting towards his face.

Stretching his shoulders back, Gendry grinned as the kids ran by, in hot pursuit of the chickens. She knew that smile well—relaxed and generous. He scratched his short, dark hair, closed his eyes, and rolled his head from one side, then the next, grimacing at one particular spot. The beard was almost gone, trimmed to a shadow on his skin.

Arya lingered, ruling her movements to none other than breathing. If she could just remain invisible for a few moments longer, he would return to his work and she to her meal. As if to agree, her stomach gurgled its understanding. She shifted her hand, in case the smith heard it over the racket.

Gendry caught the movement.

She refused to break eye contact. It was a matter of sheer willpower and she was determined to win, even if her eyes bled.

"Do you have the list?" a woman yelled somewhere nearby.

 _He has not made your list._

Arya inhaled and held it until she ached from the inside out. Step by step, she made her way through the muddy snow towards the black-clad man, who had not stopped staring. She moved to his left, in the direction of the forge's heat.

"M'lady."

"I've seen Hot Pie." She glanced over the weapons in the smithy. Most were basic daggers and swords, practical hilts and handles.

Gendry checked the blade in the coals. "He's alive?" He slid on a glove and moved the iron to the anvil. Her ears rang when he lowered his hammer to shape the sword, even when she plugged them with her fingers.

She waited until he deposited the longsword into the water bucket. "I've just said that I saw him. That'd make him alive." Everything other than her voice sounded quiet, even the noise in the courtyard.

"How'd he look?"

"The same. His cooking's better now."

"And he is well?"

"Yes. He was the one who told me Jon was alive."

Gendry shrugged off the glove. "I've met him, your brother." Then peeled off the dirty scarf at his neck, exposing his throat. There was the vein she favored to deliver the gift.

"You've said that before." She rubbed her ears, trying to make any other sound than the hammer return.

"At Dragonstone. Told him I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard."

A small sound escaped her throat. "He probably enjoyed that, knowing Jon." But it was a lie. She didn't know Jon at all. Everything was a memory, for he was a king, now.

Tucked back in the corner of the smithy, a table was filled with odd weapons—spears without heads and bladeless hilts. Arya rifled through the assortment. "What good would these do in battle?"

Gendry stepped next to her, their arms brushing. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. _Not today._ He smelled of grime and sweat, coal and anxiety.

His large hand latched onto the shaft of a headless arrow. "They'll be fitted with dragonglass. Your brother mined it at Dragonstone and is bringing it here." He handed her a small mace, it's pitted and empty globe nearly useless. "I can fit the weapons with it. Dragonglass is the only thing that'll kill the dead, other than Valyrian steel."

"And can you forge that?" Her words were sharp. She remembered Ice, her father's great sword. Sansa told her that the Lannisters had it melted down into two swords. One belonged to Brienne of Tarth, its distinctive, rippled steel easy to identify. The other, Joffrey received. She only wished he'd been stabbed with it rather than choke on the poison.

"Aye. Tobho Mott was my master. He was one of three men in all of Westeros skilled enough to work it." Gendry gently set the arrow down. "Tywin Lannister forced him to reforge your father's sword."

"Forced him with a knife to his throat?" Arya chucked the mace aside and shoved his arm.

He stumbled a step. "Under penalty that I'd be murdered, alongside his wife and daughter." Gendry squared up. "I didn't find out until I returned to Kings Landing. I would've told you before." His shoulders, so broad before, slumped as he spoke.

Her stomach reminded her that she needed to eat. Without an explanation, she trod past the anvil and bucket, the twin blades dull and cooled.

"They sold me," he yelled to her back.

She forced her feet to keep moving towards the kitchen. _Two bags of gold from that red witch._

"Like a dog!"

Arya whirled around, chin tucked to her chest. "I don't care!" She glared at him, his breath wisping in the fading daylight. Her left hand, a fist. The right, wrapped around Cat's Paw under her cloak.

Gendry tilted his face up ever so slightly, before dropping his eyes to the ground. "M'lady." He grabbed the naked blades from the bucket and hurled them into the smithy, where they clattered on the stone floor.

She held her ground as he retreated into the shadows. _Fierce as a wolverine._ Her heart raged against her ribcage.

The kitchens were warm—too warm. She shed her cloak and took her rabbit stew to the storeroom. When the temperatures there proved hot for her taste, she fled through the side door, past the empty kennels and into the godswood.

Snowfall began as she sat beneath the weirwood. The red leaves reflected in the black water, snowflakes pocking the surface seconds before they melted away.

 _I am not a Lady. I am a wolf._

He looked miserable when Stannis' guard hauled him onto the cart. Gendry looked at Arya, and she swore he was sorry he hadn't chosen her. Served him right, in the end. Those sad, blue eyes bounced away, led by the priestess. At least he was safe. One less person to have to … protect.

Once the stew warmed her belly, Arya curled into the truck of the white weirwood. She couldn't weigh Gendry's childhood rejection against the joy in her mind at the sight of him. She traced the ancient face carved into the tree. Her father would pray here, for wisdom. The leaves overhead rustled in the breeze. _Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word._

Other than Jon, she longed for her father most of all. The curve of the tree almost felt like his strong arms and she closed her eyes. "I miss you," she whispered to the red sap tears, praying to the old gods that he would hear. For the first time in years, Arya Stark let the hurt spill from her heart through her own tears, which fell unchecked to the snow. The frigid air felt like a bruise in her lungs. _A bruise is a lesson, and each lesson makes us better._

She didn't mind the warm breath on her cheek, or when her body felt weightless. It was easier to stay silent and float in the icy blackness.

"I've got you," someone rumbled into her ear. He sounded so familiar. "M'lady."

* * *

 _This little story won't leave me alone. Hope you enjoy! ~JS_


	3. Chapter 3

The disjointed bits confused Arya: her body rattled against the snow before being plunged into a burning furnace. Samwell's kind, round face. Sansa's skirts rustling before the bed dipped when she sat. Tart, warm mead tickled her nostrils, but felt like liquid fire when Arya swallowed. The fire popped. Heavy boots thumped on the floor boards.

"She is getting better," a man said, his warm hand pressed onto Arya's forehead. "Her feet look good, too. It is her mind that concerns me."

 _I see you. I see you, wolf child. Blood child._

Arya struggled to speak, to make them understand that she was so very cold and hungry. And what were they doing in the godswood? She'd only come to eat and figure out what Father might do. But the gloom embraced her again and their voices faded.

Weighted with rocks, Arya forced her eyelids open. Only the firelight brightened the room—her bedroom. Her head felt muddled with too much ale. When she tried her rub her temples to temper the riot in her head, her naked arm felt heavier than Bran's wheeled chair in the mud.

"Oh, hello!" Samwell Tarly pushed up from the chair across the room, the legs scraping the floor. "You're awake." He placed the back of his pudgy fingers across her forehead, nervously smiling when she watched his face. "You've been asleep for hours."

"What time is it?" Claws scratched her throat from the inside out.

"Oh, I suppose it's near midday now." He looked to the closed window. "It's pretty bright outside, but the meal hasn't arrived. Maybe I'm just hungry!" He chuckled, turning his examination to her fingers. Tenderly, he tucked her arm underneath the furs before moving lower and revealing her toes. His nail scraped across the arch of her foot and it was all she could do to not kick his face. "Great! You feel that."

"Of course I feel that," she croaked.

Samwell covered her feet again, his eyebrows drawn together. "You didn't before. I'll have someone fetch your sister." He shuffled to the door and spoke in hushed tones to someone in the hallway.

Lead-footed boots hurried down the passage.

Arya rested her heavy eyes again. Only a fool would fall asleep in the snow. Rather than degrade herself and recount her idiotic actions, Arya sought No One for the answer. _The best way to answer a fool is to stay mute._ She listened and learned; Sam fussed on the other side of the room, tiny metal pieces clinking together. Far below her window, a newborn babe cried, its mother crooned, trying to quiet it. The smoke from the fire was light—Sansa had let them use the driest wood instead of the ones heaped in pitch. A cow bellowed. Two sets of feet returned towards her bedroom: the clumsy ones and dainty steps of leather heeled boots.

Arya felt her eyes roll forward when she reopened them.

Sansa remained silent when she paused in the doorway. Over her shoulder, the Baratheon blue eyes caught Arya's before he thudded back down the hallway. He'd been the one pacing before. Sam's feet shuffled.

"I'm glad you're alright," Sansa said, her words clipped with practiced precision. Her pale hands were clasped near the end of her chain, and she didn't enter the bedroom.

Arya didn't respond. She knew the Sun burned with anger. There weren't many of them left now and it wouldn't do to die from being stupid. She ducked her eyes downwards, a bow of sorts, to her Lady sister, to apologize.

"I will see you at supper, then." In one swift turn, Sansa was gone.

Samwell glanced back and forth between the empty passage and the bed, a skittish chuckle pressing through his nostrils. "Well, that went nicely." He held out a cup for Arya. She drank the bitter concoction as he rambled. "For a moment, I thought she might pummel you and then I remembered Jon said it's you with the temper." His smile was wide when he took the empty cup.

"How do you know Jon?"

He stood and straightened his shoulders. "He's my best friend." Sam rolled some metals tools into a pouch. "I'd do anything for him, including saving his favorite sister."

Arya felt her cheeks flush.

"He'd have been awful disappointed if you'd died before he got here."

"I know," she whispered, remembering the peace in the darkness before she woke. There were no wars, no walking dead, no past come back—just tranquility. _Begone from here, dark heart._ But Jon was coming. She would not be reckless again.

Arya swung her bare legs to the floor and heard Sam murmur. She looked at his back, because he turned to give her a bit of decency. "What did you say?"

"Nothing, my lady. I was just wondering how long it'd be until Jon arrives."

"I don't know." Arya gave her head a sharp shake. It felt like she'd been asleep for days and days. By the time she shrugged her tunic on, she could barely lace the strings. "I am so tired."

Sam glanced over his shoulder, then turned. "Oh, it took a lot of warm water skins to bring you back. I wasn't so sure that you'd keep your toes, but they look alright to me." He knelt and rolled on her stockings, then tied her boots. Tapping the knot, he looked up. "Good as new."

"Not sure about that, but I am hungry."

She leaned heavily on Samwell's arm down to the dining hall. Every bone ached when he lowered her to the bench.

"I'll be right back with some broth and bread."

Arya folded her arms on the table and laid her head on them to keep the room from spinning. "Just need to rest," she whispered to the empty room.

"Oh no, you don't." Boots slapped across the stone floor. "Wake up, Arya."

Her eyelids wouldn't cooperate, despite someone tapping her cheek with their fingertips.

"No, no. Wake up." His voice drifted out on a tide. It returned, breath tickling her ears. "Cersei, the Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn Payne, the Mountain."

Arya stirred, head wobbling as she lifted it. She rubbed her forehead. The light from the windows hurt, so she only cracked her eyes to see who brushed against her.

"There you are," Gendry said. He blew a slow breath through his chapped lips. "Thought I'd have to find the maester for you again."

"What are you doing here?"

"You're welcome."

"How do you … why did you say those names?"

His eyebrows peaked. "How? I've had that list memorized for years. I've learned who left your list and the methods. Except the Hound. That, I don't understand."

She rolled her head on her neck to try and help her headache.

"As for why, it is the one thing you love above all else—revenge." He tapped the wooden table. "Revenge and your family."

Arya straightened in measured movements, and looked to the fireplace. Had it been only six years? Seven? One-hundred? So many years had passed since she last sat in this same spot with two older brothers and two younger ones, a sister, a father, and a mother. Direwolf pups all around.

"Yes," she breathed, leaving their history unsaid, though it hung in the air, a sweet fruit waiting to be plucked. She offered Gendry once. Never again. _If you don't solve the problems from the past, they will follow you into the future._

"Here we are!" Samwell trotted into the hall with a bowl and chunk of bread. "Oh, Sir Gendry. I didn't know you were here or I would've brought more."

"He was just leaving."

"I was just leaving."

The pair fastened their eyes on one another after their simultaneous words. He swung his short cape down from his shoulders and draped it onto hers. "You need to stay warm." Gendry dipped at the waist to Sam, then to Arya. "M'lady." He left, his heavy feet echoing in the room.

Arya polished off the soup, giving her gratitude to Jon's best friend. Though she thought she might walk outside to shake the exhaustion, the little voice inside, that joy, cried for justice—payment for a life. It was odd, the feeling of having to repay a life, even if it was her own. The House required compensation. A Stark did not. But the Stark's honor was altogether different.

She hesitated at Sansa's door, hand on the bar. It was the right thing to do—to give someone a choice. Arya pushed the door open, into a wall of heat.

"Arya. I wasn't expecting you." Sansa smoothed the parchment on her desk, securing the rolled corners with an ink pot and black, rounded rocks. "I'm working on something Maester Tarly brought back from the Citadel about the Long Night."

"So Old Nan was right." Even upside down, Arya could read the old, slanted text. _In that darkness the White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses_ _…_

"It would appear so, unfortunately."

"Has Bran said anything?"

"Not anything helpful." Sansa flicked her pretty blue eyes up. "That was rude."

"It's nothing he probably hasn't already seen."

Her sister's lips turned upward. "I suppose you're not here to learn how to keep the books?"

"No," Arya said, sliding her hands behind her back. She squeezed them together and felt the blood in her fingers flee. "I need to ask for something. And I need you to not question why."

Without so much as a bid for explanation, Arya was on her way within minutes, her request tucked neatly into her belt. To quiet her mind, she stepped into the courtyard of the First Keep to practice basic steps with Needle.

She'd only gone through a few paces when Lady Lyanna emerged from the armory, clutching a dagger nearly as long as her lithe forearm. "Would you mind if I watched, Lady Arya? No one thought to teach the youngest daughter."

Arya dipped her head. "I wouldn't have thought a skinchanger needs a blade." She lifted her eyebrows and smiled.

The corner of the girl's mouth tipped up. "Said the direwolf to the bear."

At that moment, Arya was confident the She-Bear's youngest cub was fiercer than any lord under Winterfell's roof.

Lyanna held her blade up, snowflakes peppering her hair. "Here we stand."

"Winter is coming."

They sparred in slow motion, Arya careful not to disturb the precious package folded into her belt. They worked on places to tuck the blade, to remain hidden on a female. The girl was a quick study. _You are a sword, that is all._ For her part, Lady Lyanna kept her dagger close, never extending her arm too far.

Dancing with their short weapons, Arya praised the little Lady for her fluid movements. "Calm as still water. Strong as a bear."

Lyanna's chest heaved. Her teeth showed in a row between her pink lips. Beads of sweat gathered near the dark wisps of hair at her temples and snow gathered on the shoulders of her cloak. "Is that all?"

Arya nodded, though she admired her companion's eagerness. "For today."

The lady bear bowed at the waist. "Until next time, Lady Arya."

"Lady Lyanna." Arya returned the curtsey.

She waited until the younger girl left before she pushed Cat's Paw into her waistband. She'd seen him some time ago, hidden in the shadows of the guards hall entrance. It was easier to ignore him. If he had something to say, then he'd need to get to it before she left to see about the raven that had flown in during her spar.

"Nice cape, m'lady."

She'd come to appreciate the bigger fit as she moved with her dagger, its soft and worn leather. It was plain and smelled like sweat. No, it smelled like iron and fire and Gendry.

"Teaching the younglings to fight?" Gendry taunted her from the doorway.

"Teaching a lady to defend herself."

"Ah." He stepped into the small yard. "You are an expert."

"I am." _I am Cat. I am Nan. I am Mercy. I am Arry. I am No One._

"You have the luxury of deciding your fate, m'lady. Your path from highborn to assassin was of your own making."

"Who says I am an assassin?" She pivoted so they were within blade distance, though he was bare.

Gendry smiled. "Who doesn't? You are the ghost of Winterfell."

She ruled her grin into a thin line of indifference. "I am no one. My life was not my own from the moment I was born a girl. But yes, I have carved out a few choices."

Arya reached under her short cloak for the gift she'd received from Sansa. They were heavy in the palm of her hand. With a quick tug, they freed. She tossed the bags to Gendry. The coins jangled when he caught them. The dark heart ran away as he pulled open the drawstrings. _Begone._

"Two bags of gold." She inhaled the perfect, clean, frigid air and felt the surge of winter—of home. "You belong to no one but yourself. You'd do well to remember that, Baratheon."

* * *

 _Thanks for the follows! Hope everyone is enjoying my one-shot gone rampant. ~JS  
_

 _This chapter was inspired by an odd musical choice: "Gold on the Ceiling" by the Black Keys._


	4. Chapter 4

It hurt to breathe. Though the snow had stopped, the air was so cold that tiny ice crystals formed in her nostrils each time Arya's fur collar sunk too low. She and Sansa were restless on the battlement at the East Gate, knowing Jon would be within the walls of Winterfell soon.

From her perch, Arya could barely see past Winter Town, the air thick with smoke. She kept close to a brazier, and watched people below dart about their menial tasks. It kept her mind from wandering back into the castle's courtyard, where the hammer sang against metal. _He's strong._

Gendry had not said a word to her in the last two days. He'd dipped his head and bowed when they saw each other, but he always made a way to escape. But Arya didn't mind. Every time she wanted to chastise him for the silence, her own words faded to ash on her tongue.

Sansa stepped closer to Arya's side, holding her gloved hands to the fire. "We will freeze if we wait outside all day." Her black hood made her hair a deeper shade. Arya tried to remember what it looked like in the sunlight—with bits of copper, like their mother's. But the sun had been blotted from the sky by clouds for weeks.

"He isn't the cause for delay."

"I know." Sansa didn't have to say more. They were both grateful Jon had sent a rider ahead to announce his lone return, with a small company that did not include dragons, or their mistress.

Arya could practically feel Jon's nearness, like an invisible string pulled taut. A wolf howled long and strident in the white-washed forest near the Kingsroad. Arya held her breath, hearing none from Sansa either. Even the guards froze, the noises from Winterfell suddenly hushed. When the howl faded into the gray daylight, every animal and person was set in motion, albeit with caution and eyes to the sky.

"That was Nymeria," Sansa breathed.

The hairs stood like soldiers at attention on the back of Arya's neck. "Yes."

A second howl launched behind them, beyond the Hunter's Gate, in the wolfswood. Children and women screamed and scattered. Men hustled to push them inside and bolt doors.

Arya's heart thumped under the layers of fur and leather. "Ghost."

Sansa latched onto her sister's hand. Arya's chest ached. They were so close to being a pack again. And in the span of a lifetime and a blink, a horn sounded from Winter Town.

Jon was home. _He's more wolf than man, and so am I._

Arya ripped free of Sansa's grasp and sped down the stone steps, catapulting from the last ones, if only to gain more a few more seconds. The air pierced her lungs, her feet pounded past the East Gate. She heard Sansa call her name, but it didn't matter. Driven by instinct, blind to the distractions, all Arya saw was the mud-flecked path leading to her brother.

She tried to skid to a stop near the Smoking Log Inn. Arya nearly toppled on a patch of ice at the sight of the black destrier, pawing the snow. Jon was already sliding down, eyes never leaving her. They stayed in motion, moving towards one another, until Arya wrapped her arms around his neck, a sob escaping from her throat—a sound he echoed into her hair as they knelt in the snow.

"I've missed you," she whispered, for no one but him.

"I've missed you, too, little sister." His arms drew her tighter, as if she'd disappear. When he finally released her to see her face, Jon smiled wide, his eyes bouncing back and forth between hers. His bare palm warmed her cheeks. "You look so much like Father."

For a heartbeat, Bran and Rickon wrestled in the courtyard with Summer and Shaggydog. Robb snapped arrows into a straw man, Grey Wind lying at his heels. Mother called her name from the sept window. And high up on the walls, Father smiled at Arya and Jon as they embraced.

A swear rumbled behind Jon. "Mother of the gods, the she-wolf made it." Sandor's proud grin pushed the burns back. "Stubborn, ain't ya?"

Arya looked past Jon's shoulder to the towering man who'd saved her life, the one she'd left for dead. "A quality learned."

"My lady." Brienne nodded from her horse. An older man bobbed his head, presumably Sir Davos.

Jon rose from his knees, taking hold of Arya's hand and the reins of his destrier. They walked in slow, matching strides with each other, their backs to the caravan. "I do not want to let you from my sight," he said, squeezing her hand.

Arya didn't mind holding his hand; for at that moment, she was just Arya and he was just Jon. "You could command me to stay." She bumped her shoulder into his arm, still much shorter than he. "You are the king."

"Never to you." He released his horse and mussed her hair with his glove. She didn't care when it pulled free of the bindings. "We need to talk. You have to tell me everything."

Her dark heart twisted, smothering its secrets. _Cersei, the Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn Payne, the Mountain. I am Arry, I am Weasel, I am Salty, I am Cat, I am Blind Beth … I am No One._

Arya chose to smile instead. "I'm glad you left Sansa in charge. She is born to it."

"She is, much like your lady mother."

"It is strange," Arya said, kicking a lump of snow from the street. "I miss Mother. Even if she were to correct my stitches, I long to hear her voice."

"I think of Father often."

"I saw him, Jon." She halted mid-step. "I was in the square when Ser Ilyn Payne swung Ice." Her heart dropped. There were no tears left for that memory. "But I couldn't watch."

Jon clutched her to his chest again and kissed the top of her hair. "That's for another day. Let's get out of the cold."

And so within minutes, the wolves of Winterfell were reunited and little else mattered. There was no talk of old times, only of the dead and the fight yet to come. Once they were away from ears and eyes, just the four of them, Jon revealed his pledge to his Queen. While Arya seethed inwardly, and Sansa sat with her face ruled in apathy, Bran spilled news.

"He is no less Stark than you or I, but nonetheless, offspring of the dragon."

"We don't understand what you're saying, Bran." Sansa snapped.

"He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire. There must be one more. The dragon has three heads." Bran stared into the fireplace.

"Speak plainly," Arya barked.

Bran disclosed Samwell's discovery to his siblings, rendering their room silent. "And thus, our brother is no longer, but our cousin is born."

Arya ground her teeth together. "I don't believe you."

Jon's mouth opened and closed, like a fish stranded on the banks of a river. "Father … Lyanna is my mother?"

The conversation circled itself again and again, a cat after its own tail; Arya demanded proof, Jon repeated the claim, Bran firm in his declaration, until Sansa finally brought the discussion to its close.

"Enough." She stood from behind her desk. "We will have Sam tell us himself tomorrow. We have a guests and lords to attend." Sansa paused at the door and turned back to her siblings. "When will _your Queen_ arrive?"

No Stark or Targaryen present missed her meaning. Her clipped tone could level a battlefield.

"Not for two days. I asked for time with my sisters and brother." Jon looked directly at Arya as he spoke, reaching for her hand. "You _are_ my sisters and brother."

Sansa hummed, sniffed, and left. Bran remained mute in the corner, staring into the flames. Arya looked to Jon's hand on her own. Nails pared down over his pink cuticles, callouses where he held his sword—a king's hand. _Aegon._ No wonder Father called him Jon.

"Poor Father," she whispered. His burden, all for love of his sister. Raising his "bastard" to protect Jon's very life. "Mother hated him for you and he bore it." Arya looked up. "He loved you like a son."

"I have no other father." His eyes stayed trained on their fingers.

"Jon." Arya contemplated her words, the need to lighten their hearts, and felt a wicked grin prick her lips. "That means that your Queen is also your aunt."

He sucked in a long breath and fell back into his chair. The more he scrubbed his face, the broader her smile. When he finally caught her glance, he stilled. "Don't, Arya. I can't even think about that right now."

"I only know the stories Old Nan told us about the sisters and brothers ..."

"Seven hells. Stop."

She tilted her head and lifted her voice. "Is that a command, Your Grace?"

A weary smile spread. "Gods, I missed you."

Sansa reappeared in the doorway. "Jon, we should attend the guests. Many are asking questions."

Jon pushed himself up, mussing Arya's hair again. "Stay out of trouble, little sister."

"Yes, big brother … I mean cousin … um, Your Grace." Her heart flew high above Winterfell when he hugged her hard before joining Sansa.

She missed him the moment he left the room and shadowed them to the catwalk between the Great Keep and the Armory, clutching Gendry's cape around her shoulders. Gone were her brother and sister; in their place, Lady Stark and the King of the North.

Once they disappeared, tailed by several lords, Arya caught sight of a familiar smith. He was wrapped in furs, making his way to the Great Hall, probably to eat before being stuck with the formalities of introductions. He was only known as Gendry Waters, but Arya knew that would soon change once the dragons arrived. The men of the North would never trust a Baratheon, but they might look past the name if he proved useful in the forge.

Arya set herself on an interception course. They should talk. As she walked, she decided to ask if he would stay to forge weapons in Winterfell or fight alongside the armies.

By the time he stamped the snow from his boots, she joined him in the doorway. He held the door open for her, into the deserted Hall.

"Why is it always warmer in here?" Gendry pulled off the belt from his coat. It was the heavy one he wore on the day he arrived, furs patched together to keep a Southron warm.

"When the castle was built by Brandon the Builder and the giants thousands of years ago, he settled the walls around the hots springs below. Since then, the water has been piped through the walls." Her mother's account for guests rolled from Arya tongue.

"No wonder you can live up here when everything else is frozen."

"We had a glass garden until the Boltons ruined it." Arya shrugged her cape to the chair. "Mother had lemon trees. Sansa loved lemon cakes."

"Do you?"

 **She shifted on her feet, looking down so that her hair curtained her eyes.** ** _A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes. No, that was not me ..._** **"I haven't had one in a very long time. I remember liking them, but never as much as Sansa did. I will bring one back for her."**

 **"** **You say things like you're planning for the future. We may not even survive this battle."**

 **Arya rolled Needle over in her hands.** _Needle was Jon Snow's smile._ **"** **When this war is over, I will travel to Kings Landing and kill the queen and bring home a lemon tree."**

Gendry sighed and tossed his sheathed blade to the table. "Make a decision without your blade. For once, be stripped of your anger and revenge. Let go of the past. Do something because you feel it's right in your heart."

"I don't want to feel anything!" Arya counted her breaths. He simply did not know what it was like to lose who was dearest to him. "Revenge is all I have left," she said, even and monotonous.

He scoffed. "Poor highborn. All you have left is your revenge?" He swiped at his sword and it clattered to the floor. "What about Sansa and your brothers? Try walking in my shoes, with no one left—not even a damn bastard sibling. You thumb your nose at what's in front of you." He shook his head side to side, in frantic movements. "You—you exchange love for revenge, like it's on a supper platter."

She felt her eyebrow twitch. "You make it sound like I should be perfect. I'm not a perfect person—Sansa isn't even perfect anymore."

"I didn't ask for perfection."

"And I didn't ask for your permission." She focused on his left earlobe, close enough, but just past those eyes.

Gendry stepped closer. One hand clutched a chair, the other, a fist. "Just say it."

"What would you like me to say?" _Swift as a deer._ She would make him confess first. He would share the burn she felt every time she saw his smile, for every second she felt spurned—every moment she remembered that she'd foolishly offered him her entire world.

"Tell me what a fool I was for turning you down. Tell me to go straight to seven hells. Tell me that you hate me for saying no. Tell me that I'm an idiot for taking years to understand what you offered me then." Every word inched his tense body closer to hers until she couldn't avoid looking into his eyes.

She folded her arms. "Why should I repeat what you already know?" _Quiet as a shadow._

"Tell me."

"No." _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"Tell me!" His command echoed off the stone walls. The veins in his neck stretched forward, the corners of his eyes pulled back.

"You're an idiot," she breathed. _Calm as still water._ The joy inside raged against her false admission, while the dark heart fanned the ember.

"And that you hate me."

She inhaled through her nose. "I hate you." _Quick as a snake._

"Good!" he roared, stepping closer—within reach.

Arya could take his hand, dirt etched into the cuticles and torn nails, callouses so thick that he probably couldn't feel soft skin.

"M'lady."

Gendry departed, leaving Arya as empty as the room.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

* * *

 _AN: Thank you to Depeche Mode for bringing me through this chapter. ~JS_


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the delay in this chapter. The characters misbehaved and didn't go the direction I thought we were headed. But in other news, you'll see another one of my favorite pairs in this chapter...  
_

* * *

Arya stalked after Gendry. She'd be damned if some lowborn smith would tell her how she should feel. She was quicker and caught up with him before he'd even reached the door.

"I hate you because you chose them and not me."

Gendry spun around. "I was ten and six! You are a lady and I'm a bastard. What did you expect?"

"I expected a friend." _I expected … something else._ "I wanted someone I trusted to be with me."

"Your family would've never allowed it." His chin angled up ever so slightly.

"I had no family." She sucked in a breath, fists at her side. "I'd just watched my father's execution. Had my hair sawed off. Been shoved into a group of thieves and boys. And I lost even more, after that witch bought you."

His chin lowered. "I know. I heard about your brother and mother."

She slowed her breathing. "In the span of days, I lost everything—my family, my only friends." _Valar morgulis._ "You wonder why all I have left is revenge and hate?"

"I wonder a lot of things, Arry." Gendry's shoulders slumped and he crossed his arms. "From what I heard, Lord Stark was fair and just. Do you really think he would want you on this path?"

"You didn't know my father." She bit down, her jaw muscles contracting before releasing.

"Mostly by reputation, but I met him once, before I even knew you."

"I remember. Why did you never tell me more?" Had Father laughed with Gendry or clapped a hand on his shoulder?

Gendry's eyebrows shot up. "Because you were busy pretending to be a boy and using false names."

She shook her head. "But after that, you could've told me."

"It was more important to try and stay alive."

Arya wanted to scoff, to shove him straight onto the ground. But she blinked hard. _I am not afraid._ "How did you meet him?"

"He visited the smithy one day. Told me my helmet was fine work."

She forced herself to swallow, imagining her father turning over the bull's head, examining the lines, pressing his thumbs against the teeth.

Gendry sucked in a big breath. "I … I wouldn't sell it to him, but he wasn't mad about it. He asked about my mother. Then he told me to get back to work and left. Weren't more than a minute or so."

Arya wrapped her hand around Needle's pommel. She didn't speak, to hide the wobble that would've surely been in her voice.

"He was tall."

She chuckled. "He was."

"I knew something was wrong the moment I saw that sword." He nodded to her waist. "Too fine a blade."

Removing Needle, she placed it in his outstretched palm. "I knew the moment those gold cloaks called out your name," she said, pulling her hand back. She'd never let another man, other than Jon, take it without permission.

"It is a good rapier."

"I know."

Gendry turned it round in his dirty hands. "Tobho Mott was from Qohor, where they taught him how to work Valyrian steel. It is how he was able to forge the two swords from your father's." He offered Needle back to Arya. "Had I the spells, I'd find both halves and return his sword to you."

She took the handle, carefully avoiding his skin with her fingers. It would do no good to muddle the conversation with gratitude. Without so much as a goodbye, she turned and walked to the Great Keep in measured steps, lest she break into a run. _Valar dohaeris._ Better to retreat and gather her thoughts, to stamp the joy down, no matter how much contentment bled into her mind.

As Arya rounded the steps towards her room, a hushed conversation froze her in place.

"I'd heard stories," a man rumbled. No doubt, Sandor Clegane crowded the landing near her sister's room. "You'd been Littlefinger's whore and he'd sold you to the Boltons."

"Unfortunately, the latter was true." Sansa's voice was low and formal. She probably had her hands folded politely in front of her. But what were they doing alone?

"Your brother said you killed him."

"Which one?" Arya could hear the smirk in Sansa's response.

"You've grown wolf teeth." He shifted and his leathers creaked. "Good."

"I'd always wondered where you'd gone."

"You mean after your sister left me for dead?"

Sansa scoffed. "Sounds like Arya."

The girl in question rolled her eyes to the stone wall.

He grunted. "Doesn't matter. I'm here now."

"With the Brotherhood, of all things." Sansa's skirts swished and it sounded like she leaned against something. "Suddenly a believer of the lord of light?"

Sandor let off a long streak of curses. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

Sansa sighed. "I'm glad you're here. I don't have many people who I can trust."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

Arya stiffened, imagining the Hound standing tall over her sister.

"I still believe that you would never hurt me." Sansa's impossibly small voice echoed off the stones.

"Never."

Sansa sniffed, like she was crying. "Does your leg hurt?"

"The blasted cold always makes it ache."

"If you'd like, I can have a poultice that may help."

"Not if it smells like flowers."

She laughed and Arya imagined her smile was wide and genuine. "It doesn't. I promise."

"How do you know?"

"Well," she said, feet shuffling, "I use it, sometimes."

Sandor grunted again. "What need does a lady have for something like that?"

"A lady who was married to a sick man who preferred punishment above all." Sansa's gloves rubbed against each other.

"That shouldn't have happened to you."

"It doesn't matter now. It did happen. But, I'm here, and you're here."

"Aye. Not so much the little bird I left in Kings Landing. What shall I call you now? The lady of the wolves?"

"No."

Their silence made Arya hold her breath. _Quiet as a mouse._ She crept up the stairs until she could just see the pair, their toes nearly touching. Sandor slouched, one arm against the wall near Sansa's bare head, the other hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He tilted his face one way, then the next, examining Sansa, who kept her eyes trained on his twisted face.

"I … I would prefer it if you'd call me by my name."

Sandor's head jerked back. "Seven hells. You're a lady." He swore again, then apologized. "Why would you ask me that?"

Arya felt her eyes widen when Sansa tugged off her glove and touched his ruined cheek. When he yanked back, she followed and placed her hand on the melted flesh. "I've always regretted my decision to not leave with you all of those years ago. If I could go back in time, I would. But here we stand, two damaged people, sharing poultice for our aching bones." She smiled a pretty little smile to the Hound. "Grant me that privilege … Sandor."

"Sansa," he rumbled. His giant hand enclosed hers and pulled it from his face. "But always Lady Stark."

Arya breathed through her nose, afraid to blink, lest they catch her movement. Yet, they stared as lovers; Sansa's chest rose and fell as though she'd been running, the Hound's entire body hunched more closely the moment her name crossed his lips.

"It is my lot. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"You are good at it." He reached forward and pinched the loose end of her hair. "You look like your mother."

Sansa huffed. "Littlefinger reminded me of that quite often."

"Well, you killed him."

"Technically," she said, head cocked sideways, "Arya killed him. But, it was enough to watch his face."

Arya felt a smile creep up one corner of her lips at the thought. It had been entirely satisfying to feel Catspaw slice through Littlefinger's neck, a dying gasp before he tumbled.

"Will you … would you stay near me?" Sansa looked at her feet. "When I'm about the yard or in the keep?"

"Brienne is your sworn sword."

"That is because she promised my mother." Sansa folded her arms and rattled the chain around her neck.

"And you want an old Lannister dog, who everyone in the North distrusts and wants to kill?"

Arya eased her way back out of sight, baffled at her sister's request.

"I want someone I can trust."

"I told your sister … things I regret saying—things about you. She will kill me, if given the chance."

"You also promised to keep me safe and I'd feel protected with you as my sword, if you'll agree."

There was a rush of leather creaking, a sword removed from its scabbard, and Sandor groaned. "I may never be able to get up, but I am yours."

Peeking once more, Arya watched as he lifted his sword in both palms from his kneeling position, head bowed.

"Lady Sansa, I offer my services," he said, voice almost gentle and undeniably wavering. "I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Torchlight illuminating her hair, Sansa placed both hands on his shoulders. "Sandor Clegane, I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new." She bent over and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head before straightening. "Arise."

After he struggled, leaning onto the wall, Sandor stretched tall, looking down at his lady liege. Arya swore he might swoop down and kiss her sister's upturned lips, but they simply smiled at one another.

"You should go, L—Sansa. They'll be looking for you soon, running here and there, signing this and that."

"They are all wetting themselves, preparing for Queen Daenerys' arrival."

He chuckled, sheathing his sword. "Wait until they see her, with her white hair and purple eyes."

"Is she as beautiful as they say?" Sansa looked down and smoothed her skirt.

"I wouldn't know." Sandor's big hand hooked her chin and tugged it up. "I don't tend to keep with them who come into the world by their mother and uncle."

Sansa laughed and threw her hand over her mouth. She replaced her glove. The pair left in the opposite direction of Arya's spot, Sansa's shoulder barely brushing against his arm.

Arya squatted until they were out of sight, Sandor holding open a door for the Sun—his Sun. This was the man who told her he wished he'd raped Sansa for one good memory. And now, he was her sworn sword, and Sansa was making puppy eyes at him, like she was infatuated.

She sank to the cold steps. Her brother was her cousin. The other was the three-eyed raven. And her sister obviously cared for a murdering kidnapper. The only thing that made much sense at all was the smith, who'd offered to bring back a small part of her father.

It wasn't long before Arya retraced her steps back to Gendry. "The forge," she whispered, reassuring her intentions to the snow.

He looked up when she sauntered in and plopped onto the stool near the door. Gendry stoked the glowing coals and shifted the armored chest plate on the edge of the forge. "Make yourself useful," he said, nodding to a mound of chainmail and pliers.

By the time she'd mended the holes, Gendry put a damper on the fire, pounded the armor, and was polishing black soot from the piece.

"How did Hot Pie look when you last saw him?"

She smirked. "Fat." Her lips upturned. "But happy. Pointed me in direction of Winterhell."

Gendry's laughed bounced from the walls. "At least that wolf bread tasted good."

They were interrupted by the racket of an approaching group. Arya stood and peeked her head around the wall in time to see Jon talking to Lord Glover, other lords jostling for position nearby. Jon stopped, looked to the sky, and sighed, his breath a white tendril. He rolled his head one way, then to her direction. His smile erupted the moment he saw her.

"Lords, I have other business to attend presently." Jon remained in place until the bewildered men toddled away. Once they were near the catwalk, the king advanced. "Little sister."

"Lord King Big Brother Stark Targaryaen."

"Watch it." He wrapped her in a brief hug before stepping into the smithy. "I see you've met my smith."

Gendry dipped his head, balancing the cool, smooth end of a pike meant for dragonglass. "M'lord." He held the shaft still while Jon inspected it.

"So, he's _your_ smith?" She leaned on the doorpost.

"Aye, I found him."

"Not before I did."

Jon whipped his head around. "You already knew him?"

"A long time ago." She felt her smile melt into a thin line. "But he is a Baratheon, and his own master now." Those bags of gold were somewhere nearby and it made her proud.

Jon pursed his lips, eyebrows high. "You're claiming your father's name now?"

"No, m'lord." The pike clattered onto the work table. Gendry straightened. "She just likes to aggravate me, that's all." The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile.

"How'd you meet?" Jon grabbed the squatty, wooden stool and sat—the King of the North, robes dragging on the ground in a dirty forge.

Gendry pulled in a long breath, but Arya beat him.

"Yoren helped me escape Kings Landing after Father's execution. I met this one with the lot headed to The Wall." She nodded her head in Gendry's direction, as he brushed off his work table. "He knew I was a girl right away, but talked about pissing and cocks, until he heard I was a highborn."

"I—you—I didn't know you were a girl right away!" He kicked over the water bucket.

Jon threw his head back and laughed. "Oh gods, Arya." When he finally caught his breath, he laid a hand on Gendry's arm. "She had two older brothers and Theon, so she'd already heard all about it, lad."

Arya innards warmed as the blush grew deeper and spread down Gendry's neck. She should save him, but it was fun to watch him squirm. "When I argued that I wasn't a girl, he told me to whip out my—"

"Shut up!" Gendry slapped the table with one blackened hand and covered his face with the other. "You'll never let me forget, will you?"

Jon shook in silent laughter.

Arya felt both meanings of Gendry's words. Though innocent, they stroked the dark heart. "No. I never will let you forget."

Gendry flicked his eyes to hers, catching her tone. "I didn't mean that, Arya."

"Mean what?" Jon had recovered and stood.

"A story for another day, m'lord." He hadn't looked away from her, nor she from him.

 _He has not made your list._

"Then he is your smith, little sister."

"No, he is his own man. He chooses to stay in Winterfell."

Jon stroked his short beard. "And we are better for it. The dragonglass will arrive with the Queen on the morrow."

Gendry motioned to the headless weapons. "I am ready to start as soon as it arrives."

"I will find an apprentice for you."

"Won't be necessary. She'll do."

Arya snorted. "Oh, I'll do? I'll do what?"

Gendry's silence filled her mind. He looked at her the way Sandor looked at Sansa, after their oath. And Arya didn't mind. _A nice oak tree._

"You're quicker than anyone here, so you can keep up with my work." Gendry handed her an arrow shaft. "Plus, you've got little hands and that'll help with the smaller pieces."

Jon pulled the arrow from Arya's grip. "You sure you wouldn't like another, less vexing assistant?"

"I can do it." She snatched the arrow back. "You have your lords and Queen. Sansa has her stuff." She waved her hands in the air. Sandor's secret was safe. "I'll sit in this dark forge and we'll make weapons that will bring you home."

* * *

 _Thanks for sticking with me on this one! I'll be bringing in some more familiar faces soon. ~JS_


	6. Chapter 6

Two days after Daenerys' arrival, her "children" filling the sky with their hideous screeches, Arya sought the quiet refuge of the wolfswood.

The haughty pale queen did not impress Arya the way she captivated Jon. Sure, she was polite and undeniably adored Jon. But Daenerys' need to prove herself in nearly every situation wore her welcome thin within hours, no matter how well-spoken or that she wore breeches.

Even Sansa and the foreigner traded barbs at dinner over the future of Winterfell, their tones unmistakably bitter as one argued for staying in the fortress and the other expressed her concerns over the Stark's safety.

"I was capable for my own safety before you arrived," Sansa said, one hand choking the knife in her grasp, "And I'll most certainly be competent to decide my own fate. There must always be a _Stark_ in Winterfell."

A table away, only Arya seemed to notice the way the Hound had turned round on his bench, hand on his sword, and eyes fixed on his lady. _Valar dohaeris._ The faceless girl sat fascinated by Clegane's movements, as Jon buffered the women on either of his elbows. For her part, Arya slipped her left hand down to Sansa's thigh and squeezed her sister's hand. When Sansa quieted and turned her cheek to Arya, Sandor's gaze shifted. Arya acknowledged him with a quick nod. He recognized her gesture with his middle finger, and returned to his supper.

"She may have her dragons, but we are wolves." Later, Sansa huffed as Arya accompanied her to the study. "To come in here, after all that we've accomplished, and think we'd abandon our home before battle." Sansa jabbed at the fire and the embers tossed in the fireplace.

"We need her for the battle ahead." Arya paused near the desk, looking at the papers. They were going to run out of meat soon. "I don't like it any better than you."

Sansa withheld her answer, staring into the flames, the poker listless in her hand. She only hesitated for a moment when the heavy, lop-sided footsteps echoed through the open door. Replacing the poker to the side, Sansa sat in her chair, smoothing her skirts the closer Sandor came.

"We need her now, Sansa. She wants the Iron Throne, not Winterfell." Arya pointed to the maester's note about the meat supply. "I'll try and get this sorted." She lifted her head when he filled the doorway. "Clegane."

"Stark."

"Seems we both survived that day." Arya paraded her fingertips on Needle's handle.

He grunted. "Aye."

"I will not kill you unless you hurt her. And seeing as how she believes you won't hurt her, I'll not kill you."

Sandor's face went slack. Arya could hear Sansa's breath catch.

"But, I guarantee that it will hurt if I do have to kill you." She left the two, and layered on the furs for her hunt.

The stillness of the forest, despite the creatures and breeze, lulled Arya into a calm mind. Her list whispered on the wind. _Cersei, the Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn Payne, the Mountain._

First, she set stringer lines in the rushing creek where Jory Cassel took her brothers to fish for trout. Further on, where the trees still grew like soldiers at attention, she worked quickly, placing spring traps for small rodents and metal jaws as big as her head near some bear tracks.

Tedious traps in place, Arya trekked into the wolfswood for larger game. The snow was less deep under the canopy, and smelled clean after days in Winterfell. She crept into the crook of a tree and kept still, rewarded by a stag hours later.

Though her arrow was true and the deer fell, Arya remained in her perch, the air charged around her. She searched the shadows among the trees until they moved. Ghost nosed forward to her kill, his eyes on her.

"Ghost." Arya hopped down, slinging her bow to her back.

The direwolf snarled, the hair on his neck raised.

"Take it, boy. You can have it." She advanced one careful step at a time, palms out, boots crunching the snow. She only stopped when she was opposite of the stag as Jon's wolf, his muzzle still twitching over his teeth.

Arya knelt in the snow. "Nymeria is alive. I saw her, and I heard her a few days ago."

Ghost stepped forward.

"Jon's back."

At the mention of his master's voice, Ghost's ears pricked forward.

Arya held her hand up, keeping her eyes on the direwolf's. It had been so long. The moment he walked into her touch, she bit her lip to keep from crying. "I'll take you home to him."

When she stood and took a few steps towards Winterfell, Ghost whined and looked back at the carcass. Arya knew she shouldn't leave it behind, but she also knew she couldn't pack the entire thing out. She unrolled the blanket bundled at her waist. While the giant wolf waited patiently, she carved the deer into smaller portions, throwing bloody bits to him.

Hours later, exhausted from tugging, dragging, and pulling the meat home, Arya waved to the men at the Hunter's Gate to help. She collapsed into a snow bank, Ghost at her elbow. The guards approached with swords drawn.

"Put those away, you idiots. If Ghost wanted you dead, you'd already be meeting the makers." She put her bloody gloves onto her knees. "Get my brother, the king." It was almost hilarious, saying her favorite sibling was the king—the one Mother despised and Father protected. The same one who teased her and messed up her hair.

"Not my brother," she whispered, head lolling back onto the snow, eyes closing.

The guards scampered away, pulling the meat with them, leaving a bright red trail in the snow. Arya sat up and scrubbed her gloves in the snow, trying to clean them. Her legs were numb by the time Jon finally appeared at the gate. He must've said something to the curious entourage, because they remained at the gate while he pushed through the drifts towards Arya and Ghost.

"You never know who you'll find in the woods," she breathed, as he dropped and buried his head into the white fur.

"You're a mess." He reached over and ruffled her hair. The snowfall picked up and was turning his collar white. "Why didn't you take men with you?"

"I needed to be alone."

"Right. Your training."

"No, it's too crowded in Winterfell and I needed the quiet. The snow doesn't need to be told what to do or demand attention."

"You sound like a singer."

"Shut up."

Jon sighed. "I wish I could come with you. But there's too much to do."

"Well, now you have him back. Go show the Mother of Dragons what a direwolf looks like." She stroked Ghost's fur. "Seven hells, you're a wolf and a dragon, Jon."

He rocked back onto his heels. "The dead don't care what I am, Arya. If we survive this war, maybe I'll have a pet wolf and a pet dragon." He smiled while he stood, offering his hand to help her. When she was upright, he collected her into his arms. His cloak smelled like wood smoke and something feminine.

Arya extracted herself from his hug and started towards Winterfell. "She won't give you a dragon. She likes having the power."

Jon walked beside her, towards the crowd at the Hunter's Gate. "Be nice."

"Wrong sister," she scoffed.

She avoided the cluster at the gate and headed towards the forge, knowing a stack of arrow shafts waited to be hafted with dragonglass heads. Soon, she'd be too tired to see the thin sinew and a miswrapped arrowhead could mean death. Passing by the kitchen, she nabbed a hunk of bread and cheese that she ate on her way across the courtyard. She slowed, hearing silence from the smithy—no hammer, no sizzle from the water bucket. It was midday and Gendry hadn't stopped working for two days. The door hung slightly ajar, the snow-packed path speckled with mud.

Arya lightened her steps, creeping towards the door. _Quiet as a mouse._ Somewhere within, his light snores bounced off of the walls, probably from his cot behind the curtain on the back wall. She tiptoed across the floor and held back the flimsy cloth. One leg was off of the mattress, the other knee leaned against the wall. His left arm laid across his eyes while his right hand rested on a tantalizing patch of skin on his belly, like he'd fallen asleep scratching an itch. Arya smiled, then shook her head and backed away.

She deposited her stiff gloves to the dirt and shucked her heavy jacket to the single peg in the wall near the door. Better to get to work until she couldn't focus. Then she could crawl into bed, fall asleep, and not stare at the ceiling and think of … things. Like the dark curls near his belly button. Arya nicked her fingertip onto an arrowhead to focus on more important things.

The stack was more than half done when he stirred with a groan. The second boot thudded to the floor and the leather thongs holding the mattress from the floor squeaked. She could imagine his big, dirty hands rubbing over his face when she heard the friction and yawn. He groaned again and some bones popped. His head was down when pushed through the curtain, wiping his eyes.

She dropped her eyes to the slimy sinew, winding and pulling it around the notches. His boots shuffled and stopped on the other side of the worktable.

Gendry picked up a flawless arrow, mindful of the fletching, and turned it over a few times.

"Where were you?"

Arya's shoulders pulled back as she straightened on her stool. "You do not hold my leash."

"No, but people always ask me where you are. Besides, I needed your help with the arrows."

"As you see, I am here now. My sister needs meat in the storerooms. Arrows can wait."

"You haven't seen the dead," he huffed. "They won't wait."

"You've never feed hundreds. They will leave if they have to wait. Then we will have none to fight." She looped the tight haft, eyes on her work.

"That's why you have hunting parties."

"Hunting parties are loud and slow."

His stained hands spread out on the table near hers. "What if you were hurt?"

"I wasn't," she said.

"You could've been."

"Valar morghulis."

"What's that mean? I hear you whisper it often."

She thought of Jaqen and Harrenhall, and the Waif in the Hall of Faces. Arya looked up to her smith, the dark tendrils warmer than the dampened forge fire in her heart. "All men must die."

Gendry's eyebrows dropped. "But you're a lady now."

"How could I forget?" She tied off the sinew and nipped it at the knot. "You and everyone else like to remind me every day."

He shoved the table and it shifted into her ribcage. "Fine, go freeze to death in the snow, m'lady."

She sniffed and stood. "I believe I'll wash up first."

"You should. You have some blood on your face."

Not one to leave without the last word, she laid the last arrow onto the pile and pushed her breath through her nose. "Good. That'll give the lords something else to talk about."

"Am I interrupting?" Tyrion Lannister leaned against the door, as if he belonged. "I was simply coming to visit my nephew and former good sister, and I can't help but feel as if I've walked into something I can't quite put my finger on."

Arya showed him which finger she thought was appropriate.

"Shocking, Lady Arya. Your sister would be appalled."

"That's because she's a lady and I am …" She stopped herself. "I'm something altogether different." _A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell._

"Quite right." Tyrion smiled, pushing up the corners of his beard. "I've heard tales of your … work."

Arya looked to Gendry again, who stared at her—or the blood on her face. "I apparently need to go get cleaned up."

Tyrion's head swayed back a bit. "You look every bit the warrior princess your aunt was."

"Yet another comparison others try to mold me into." _Begone from here, dark heart._ "I am just Arya Stark. And Aunt Lyanna was not a warrior, just stubborn. Father warned me of the iron beneath her beauty."

"Quite right. Let me give you some advice, my lady, the same advice I gave to your brother, when he was just a bastard and not King of the North. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you."

Arya pulled on her cloak, yanking the drawstrings. "What do you know about being a lady or a warrior?"

"Neither. It's only advice, my good sister, from a dwarf at that." Tyrion advanced into the blackened smithy. "And you, the spitting image of your father." He pointed up at Gendry. "You'd be best to read history, to learn that the seven kingdoms went into war over her family. Thousands killed for the love of a strong-willed woman."

Gendry shifted his gaze from Tyrion to Arya. He inhaled, as if to say something, then turned and chucked a small hammer into the wall, leaving a dent in the wood.

"Oh my." The little lion man stepped back towards the door, hands up. "It was just friendly advice, nephew. No need to remove a wall."

Gendry's shoulders rose and fell with his heaving breaths.

"I see I've overstayed my welcome. Lady Arya, Gendry." Tyrion bowed at the waist and disappeared into the courtyard.

She left the forge and kept walking, even when Gendry called her name.

* * *

 _AN: I know this is not everyone's version of Daenerys. I actually like her. But I tried to keep it from Arya's perspective...and Sansa's. The Stark girls do not know Dany's history and would naturally distrust an outsider. Plus, it's not Dany's story. :) It's my little assassin's, and her smith. Enjoy the slow burn! ~JS  
_


	7. Chapter 7

The more she tried to ignore Clegane and Sansa, the more Arya noticed—the way he kept to the shadows in the Great Hall, and within steps of her sister inside the Great Keep. Sansa developed a manner of sweeping her eyes over the entire room, just to see him. He was forever with his lady, without being next to her. Their possession of each other both annoyed and stirred something inside that Arya couldn't quite describe.

Jamie Lannister's appearance only muddled her world. Though he would not suffice as a sacrifice for his sister, his half-frozen arrival whispered into her ears. _Cersei, the Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Ser Ilyn Payne, the Mountain._ Jon had shortened her list, delivering the news of Thoros' death beyond the wall. A raven from Castle Black reported Beric Dondarrion's attendance, as he chose to stay behind while a fire-haired wildling arrived with news from the collapse at Eastwatch.

Brienne of Tarth confused them all by asking for Jamie's life. She swore to kill the man herself if she was wrong about his honor and intentions to fight alongside the Northerners. Arya silently promised to beat Brienne to it if the matter arose.

Jon's appearance became scarce, meals often missed or served in the solar, where he, Tyrion, Sir Davos, Daenerys, Sansa, and other lords plotted ways to defend Winterfell's walls. Bran had seen the army of the dead march past The Wall, spill out of Eastwatch and into The Gift. From there, the legions of white swarmed Last Hearth. It would be only days until they arrived.

The white-haired queen wrung her hands when the ice dragon's fate was decided. Lord Tyrion suggested, stumbling over his words, a weapon like the one his brother had tried against her black beast.

"I am not suggesting that we kill your child," he said, mismatched eyes looking to his queen. "Viserion already died. His body is simply a weapon now."

And Arya did not learn these things from being part of the privy council, for none asked for the opinion of a rumored faceless assassin. She listened with another's ears, and served with different hands. Only Bran watched her move around the room, and she curtsied to him when she had learned what she needed to.

They needed dragonglass weapons—more than they could ever hope to make.

It was that fact alone that drove her back to the dingy forge early the next day, despite knowing that Gendry would try to talk with her, reason that Tyrion spoke out of turn or apologize for their argument. She didn't want an apology, she wanted to work. His hammer echoed across the courtyard, and Arya rehearsed her speech in her head, the need for weapons rather than talk. With a sigh, she pushed the door open.

Gendry hesitated when Arya paused in the doorway, then beat the end of a pike flat. Her lips twitched sideways. She swung her cape, his cape, to the peg and dragged her tall stool to the opposite end of the worktable to avoid the errant sparks.

Her neck ached when he finally stopped, for she would not stop until he did. Pike after pike, dagger after dagger, mace after mace. She did not reach up to massage her sore muscles until he stepped behind the curtain. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, nose to the ceiling, ears still ringing from the incessant beating. Her eyes remained closed when she stretched her neck forward, hair falling across her forehead. When she finally looked up, he was standing next to the curtain, a clean shirt pulled only to his elbows, chest bare.

But, he stared. And she stared back.

"I'll go get some food," Gendry said, pulling the shirt over his head.

Arya nodded, quashing the smile and the upwards tip of her eyebrow. When he left, it felt lonely, despite the lack of conversation or interaction. She checked the oil level in the lamps and summoned a pack of roving boys to fetch soldiers and deliver the weapons to the armory. Goosebumps running down all of her limbs, her eyes flicked towards the kitchen, and, finding no signs of Gendry's return, Arya sat at the bench with a pile of arrows.

When he did return, it was with plates of warm meat, ale, cheese, and bread. She didn't imagine she was hungry until he placed them on the table. He pulled the other tall stool and sat across from her, pushing the meat to her first. Arya plucked a piece, tipped her head back, and dropped it into her mouth. She did not avoid Gendry's hand when he offered her a hunk of bread, their equally grimy fingers brushing against each other. When his eyes glanced up, she was surprised that he kept whatever he was saying to himself.

Soldiers interrupted their meal. Arya watched Gendry order the men, giving them orders on how to care for the brittle-stoned weapons. She commandeered the young boy at the door and relayed a message to Jon about their progress as the crowd left.

Once again in silence, other than the snapping forge, Arya's full stomach beckoned her to relax, if only a moment. She dropped her head into one hand and splayed the other onto the table.

There were more walkers than the eye could see, Daenerys said. Old Nan's voice crept into her mind. _In that darkness the White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses._ Even with two dragons, they would never survive this.

A warm, calloused hand covered hers on the table. _Calm as still water._ She kept her eyes closed, feeling the pricks from his rough thumb that barely moved across the back of her hand. Arya could feel his apology stuck behind his lips, hear him quietly clear his throat, and the measured breath he took through his nose.

She looked up and he was staring again, his eyes shifting back and forth between her own.

He licked his lips and stilled his hand on hers. "If you'd like to sleep a bit on my cot, I'll wake you soon."

It wasn't worth the argument. She simply nodded and slipped into the small back room. It wasn't until she curled into the pillow that everything centered and faded. No more war or weapons. No past, no future. It was a sweet spot of nothingness as she drifted into sleep, surrounded by the smell of the man whose smile refused to allow the darkness to fill her heart.

She woke slowly, a large hand squeezing her shoulder. It was...nice. The quietness stretched into her soul as she inhaled the coal and grease from the pillow.

The battlehorn rattled Arya's respite. It was too soon—the dead were here.

Winterfell exploded into action, footsteps racing past the forge door, women screaming to their children. Arya stood. _Not today._ She retrieved her cape and tugged on her gloves.

Gendry caught her around the waist before she pushed the door open, spun her round, and kissed her. Inside her boots, her toes curled. And behind her ribs, something other than her lungs burned. When he released her, she realized her hands were clutching his shirt.

"Do not lose this," he said, pressing a dragonglass dagger with a antler handle into her palm. "It is the thickest I could make, so I don't think it'll break."

Her thoughts skittered sideways. "Thank you." She wanted to stay, to forget the walkers, to figure out what just happened, but a small child wailed and snapped her back. "I've got to get to my sister."

"I know." He rushed to yank his thick jacket over his head.

"Where will you go?"

"Wherever I'm needed."

Her insides spooked like a wounded deer. "Go to the Hunter's Gate." There would be less panic if the lines were broken, less places to be ambushed.

"Fine."

They both stilled, eyes on one another.

"I'll be there soon," she said, tucking the dagger into the belt at her waist, next to Catspaw.

He retrieved a plain warhammer from the corner of the room. Held in his right hand, it slapped his left palm and he cleared his throat. "Valar morghulis." He blinked back the moisture starting to crowd the outside corner of his eyes.

Though he knew not the full weight of his words, she echoed them. Arya stood on the short stool at the door and tugged on his hood while he tied his leather belt around his jacket. She gave him a tiny smile and a nod, hopped down, and ran all the way to the Great Keep.

Weaving through the hectic soldiers and frantic lords, Arya finally found the Hound with Sansa near the solar, his great sword unsheathed.

"She's been out of her mind looking for you," he grunted.

Arya pushed passed his chainmail and into Sansa's arms.

"Where have you been?" Sansa pressed a kiss onto Arya's head.

"Finishing the weapons." She pulled back and looked towards Clegane, who watched them. Arya pointed at him. "I will kill you if you leave her side."

He scoffed. "I'd kill myself first."

"Even better."

Sansa gasped. "Arya!"

Arya turned to her sister. Sansa had to survive this. She was better than them all. "Go get food and wood and bar the door and window in your room." They could survive for a time in there. "If I come back to you, ask me something Father would say through the door. Don't open it for anyone."

"Go, Arya. I know you have to." Tears spilled down Sansa's cheeks, though her back was straight. She reached forward and hugged Arya again. "But please come back to me," she whispered.

The dark Moon sister kept her eyes downcast as she sped away, then none would see the fracture widen—the possibility of losing it all once again, her family, when they had finally found each other. She wanted to kill something, lots of things, to feed the rage inside. _I see you, wolf child. Blood child._

Across Winterfell, separated from Jon, Arya snaked her way through the groups of soldiers. When the dragons screamed miles away, their echoes bounced off of the Wolfswood and the soldiers looked to and fro in near blizzard sky.

She saw the only hooded man among the soldiers and she swore to protect him. Jon had his dragon queen. Sansa was behind barred doors with Clegane. Somewhere, Bran watched, and Arya swore he whispered into her ear that he was with Father. _The time has come._

The frigid air hurt to breathe and snowflakes swirled in thick curtains. She moved to Gendry's left side and watched the woods. They stood close to a brazier, the archers nearby, dipping arrowheads into oil.

As the forest shadows glowed and moved, Gendry swung his hammer in a quick circle, his arm brushing against her. "Go for the main guy," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He lowered his head towards her shoulder. "There will be one that controls the others. Your brother killed one north of the wall and the other ones just died after he was dead."

"Aren't they already dead?"

"Yes, but they died for real without the one controlling them."

"How will I know which one is the right one?"

Gendry smiled, his lips tinged with purple from the cold. "He'll be the smug bastard with white hair."

A surge of the dead emerged from the Wolfswood as a commander yelled for the archers to fire. Bladders of oil were flung and set alight, yet the walkers continued to close in. Their sheer numbers overcame the oil-soaked hay fire line, one body tumbling over as a pathway to the others.

All at once, they were in the fray. Arya swung freely with Needle, then followed with the dagger. Wights fell one after another, a never-ending wave of pale blue eyes. A small company of men worked with their backs to each other several feet away, stabbing with their pikes.

Somewhere overhead, a dragon passed, igniting the edge of the Wolfswood ablaze.

Gendry worked in a rhythm Arya recognized from the smithy. A young boy, no more than twelve, shoved his dragonglass pike into the bodies flung from Gendry's hammer.

"Do you see him yet?" Gendry threw back his hood, his breath curling into the air.

She did. She had been moving them towards the figure on a rotted horse near the creek. The horde moved towards the castle gates, where the soldiers lit oil banks and fought with dragonglass.

"Stay here," she said.

"No."

Rather than argue, Arya broke into a run towards the white man, shoving Needle to its scabbard. Gendry yelled behind her, but she screamed to center the rider's attention on solely herself. As the undead horse charged, Arya pulled a dagger into each hand, running headlong into its path. She watched and calculated, ducking and plunging the dragonglass into the horse's neck as it made to trample her. Her cheek burned and she guessed the rider's blade had grazed it as they tumbled into the snow.

Needle now extended, Arya faced the White Walker, Winterfell glowing at his back. "Ñuhor līr gūrēnna," she yelled in High Valerian. _I will take what is mine._

Unimpressed, the ghostly man parried. Over his shoulder, Arya caught sight of Gendry closing in. She dodged as he rocked back and connected the warhammer with their enemy's sword arm. With a screech, the dead man swiveled and tried to grab Gendry's weapon with his free hand.

Arya thrust Needle forward just as Gendry shifted the hammer to his opposite hand and clocked the walker in the head. The momentum and alteration in his swing slid Needle not into their enemy, but into Gendry's shoulder. His knees buckled to the snow.

The White Walker groped for his sword until Arya plunged Catspaw into his neck, screaming.

Gendry moaned and Arya scrambled over the truly dead man to her smith. The snow turned red underneath his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I stabbed you." She unwound the flimsy material at her neck and pressed it onto the wound, and he hissed. Blood surged past her gloves. "I love you, please don't die."

Gendry gritted his teeth and groaned. "What?" His eyes rolled back before he squeezed them closed.

"You shouldn't have moved. I've watched you fight and you favor your right side, swinging wide. I didn't think you'd switch hands." Below the leather neckline, his shirt turned scarlet, and so she pushed harder.

A group of soldiers rushed up with torches.

"No, before."

"Before what? Before you swung? I wasn't watching, I was fighting." Needle laid near his head, where Arya abandoned it. "Seven hells, you're bleeding like a girl."

"No," he panted, trying to lift his head, only to drop it seconds later. "What you said. Before."

"Be still and shut up." She turned and barked for the soldiers to carry him to the gate, heart thundering under the layers of leather.

"Get him up," a soldier roared. "There's more on the way."

And there, beyond the burning forest, the shadows moved again.

* * *

 _A review goes a long ways to bolster my spirits, so thank you to those who've taken the time to leave one! Until next chapter. ~JS_


	8. Chapter 8

Of course, she knew what Gendry asked about. The words slipped from her lips before she could tame them. Arya wasn't apologetic for her sentiments, but she regretted that he knew. It was the secret she held closest—that joy she refused to acknowledge. The heat from within her, every damn time she walked into the smithy. It tore from beneath her ribs and plagued her dreams.

Arya didn't want to cherish another. It sliced her a thousand times over when she thought of Father, Robb, and Rickon—even Mother. The small hollow where Jaqen's voice murmured in the wind. It was enough to have her sister and brothers again.

Gendry only made her head spin. It was better to forget what she'd said—to ignore his questions.

Across Winterfell, the ice dragon had fallen from the sky. Cheers echoed and the ground trembled when it crashed into the earth. A scrappy boy announced the victory, breathlessly recounting the Night King's near escape and subsequent capture.

Arya watched some women help Gendry behind the walls. Once, he looked back at her. Simply nodding, she took her place beside the soldiers. She tried so hard to be brave, to be fierce as a wolverine and all, but sometimes she felt she was a little girl after all.**

She braced herself when the snows swirled up from the ground, thrust by a passing dragon. It lit the oncoming line of undead afire and the soldiers lifted their arms and cheered once more.

It was justice to see the wights shriek and drop to the ground. Arya looked through the flames for their leader. If they didn't kill the White Walkers, Jon and Sansa and Bran would never be safe.

Her mind was across Winterfell with Jon, wondering how he fared, when an arrow clipped her forearm, and flung her backwards. As she struggled to get up, a clumsy line of wights pressed over the bodies of their burnt brothers—a bridge of the dead—towards the Hunter's Gate. Arya wished a dragon would return, but gripped her weapon handles even harder. In the corner of her vision, she could see the snow near her feet turn red with blood from her aching arm.

The soldiers screamed and launched into the undead. Arya sliced and stabbed her way forward. _What do we say to the god of death?_ She danced, Needle deflected, and Catspaw dulled the blue eyes. Her cheeks singed when the soldiers swung torches wide, igniting the frozen bodies. She saw the resemblance of houses from the north: the thick brow of a Royce, a high Karstark forehead, close-set eyes from House Umber. Bannermen, heirs, and children from those who served the Starks for generations fell genuinely dead.

Something bit her calf and Arya stumbled, rolling to her side. She brought Needle up, with barely enough time to clash with the longsword of a White Walker. Still, the dead leader was stronger and it towered over her body on the ground. Her strength gave way and Needle only could keep the sword's edge from her neck. The Walker's sallow cheeks leaned closer, pushing the blade towards her face. Arya had never been so cold in her life, and felt the chill creep to every part of her. The edge of the blade pressed into her cheek and she felt her skin split. She squeezed her eyes tightly to keep the tears back and screamed in agony.

"Winter is coming."

Through the pain, Arya eyes shot open when she heard the Walker hiss the words into the thick fog and snow.

His words sparked her anger—wrath for her demise. Sansa and Bran still were alive. Jon too. Arya didn't want to die.

"Not today!" she shouted, working Catspaw free and into the ribcage of the Walker, only to hit chainmail.

His beard brushed her face as he fought to hold her down, twisting the longsword until she screamed again. Its blue eyes grew close and ghastly teeth snapped in front of her nose.

Arya writhed and twisted, ignoring the blade grinding into her cheekbone. She thrashed until she finally nicked the white hand shoving her shoulder into the snow.

The Walker shattered into pieces, shards of ice covering her face.

In that moment, Arya felt nothing but the coldness. It was wrong to close her eyes, but she allowed them to drift together, the soldiers yelling their victory in her ears. Her heartbeat slowed, slowed, slowed—until it was altogether stilled.

And she was glad that Gendry knew.

* * *

 _**Totally pilfered GRRM on that line!_

 _Hey readers…careful now. Don't throw hate at me. I'm not done, but this tiny chapter is. But fair warning, the end is in sight. And this was only supposed to be a one-shot, so I'm glad it has made it this far. ~JS_


	9. Chapter 9

There were lines at the corners of Gendry's eyes that she did not remember seeing before. Deep in her dreams, the creases spoke of the years they'd been apart—the adversities each had overcome and the disappointments yielded to. Grime etched into the lines, though his face was scrubbed. The stubble on his cheeks and chin matched his dark eyelashes. And those eyes—blue as a frozen stream, and glowing like a pale-skinned rider on his dead horse.

Arya scrambled back, away from Gendry's outstretched hand, bony and rotted, and stumbled into darkness again…

* * *

"A girl must return." Cloves wafted to her nostrils and she relaxed when fingers ghosted against hers. "Arya Stark must go home."

She only heard her breathing, slow, her chest weighted by a thousand dead bodies, Winterfell soldiers and wights alike. Surely the dragon flames would end the delirium.

* * *

"Arya." Without opening her eyes, she knew Bran was somehow with her. Maybe he'd guide her to Father, as the Three-Eyed Raven. At least be useful, rather than spouting riddled nonsense. "I know you can hear me."

It hurt too much to move, let alone smile, but she thought back to when she'd pretend to sleep to avoid Septa Mordane. It was no use hiding from something that saw her past and the future. "Home," she breathed. _To Father_.

"You cannot leave. It is not your time."

If she could move, she'd stab him.

"Come back," Bran said, his voice flat.

And she wanted to open her eyes, to yell at that thing that'd stolen her last brother away. But, she felt herself drift into the crypts below Winterfell. Arya's entire body erupted in heat, pain so great that blackness clawed every thought—except the lone voice that begged someone to put her body next to her Father's.

* * *

It wasn't the throbbing in her cheek that made Arya stir, but the hushed voices. Eyes sealed and uncooperative, she tested her fingers, brushing them back and forth between—furs? Jumbling the low words, her lethargic heartbeat swooshed in her ears.

"She is my sister!"

Arya stilled at Jon's hiss, then fought her heavy lids, eyes rolling behind them, fingers working the furs. Her mind stumbled between succumbing to the peace and being able to tell whoever was in the room to shut up.

Bran, _no_ , the Three-Eyed Raven, cleared his throat. "She is awake."

A tangle of sounds—her name, cloaks rustling, and the rush of feet across the floor, made it impossible for Arya to think straight. But a fingerling of a notion, a ghost of an idea flooded her mind: had Gendry survived?

She swallowed once, twice, before someone pressed something to her lips and warm liquid splashed against her tongue. Arya moved her tongue across her rough lips, setting the entire right side of her face into flames. She moaned and swore in the same breath.

"She'll be okay," Jon laughed. She felt someone tuck her hair behind her left ear. "Little sister."

Eyelids still heavy, Arya hissed when her cheek twitched. "Gendry?" Her own voice sounded peculiar—feral and growling like a cornered dog.

"Arya." Her blacksmith sounded far away, further than the others. Something fell heavy across her ankles. She imagined it was his hand and sank back into the abyss.

* * *

Thunder rumbled, pulling Arya from her sleep. One eye swollen shut, the other fluttered open into the darkened room, shadows bouncing on the ceiling. Her dry mouth ached and her head felt like the Waif had poisoned her just for fun, to test the level of pain. Arya felt her fingers between the furs again. Though stiff, they did not hurt, so she slowly lifted her hand to her throbbing cheek.

"Don't touch it!" Sansa was suddenly there, fiery hair tickling Arya's good cheek when she deflected Arya's hand. "Be still and let me get you some wine." The looped chain around Sansa's next chinked together.

Arya let her hand fall, unable to hold it. The ceiling shifted right, then left, so she closed her eyes again. The wine poured into a cup and Sansa's boots crossed the stone floor again.

"Here." Cool metal pressed against Arya's lips, so she opened her eyes. Sansa held the cup, waiting, and nodded. "You've been asleep for so long. I thought…" Her blue eyes blinked quickly and her perfect nostrils flared. Sansa tipped the cup, slowly, letting Arya take three sips. "Not too much. Your stomach is not used to it." She switched the cup for a spoon with some gruel. "Try and get two bites."

Uncomfortable, Arya tried to shift her head and was slammed into a wall of agony. Through the pain, she could hear Sansa apologizing over and over, pressing a cool rag to her forehead. Arya inhaled through her nose, trying not to jerk. She felt Sansa wipe away tears from the unruined side of her face.

When Arya finally opened her eye again, Sansa's lips tipped up. "Hello, again." Sansa softly smoothed Arya's hair back. "Just one bite, then?"

Though it felt like the White Walker was slicing her face open again, Arya dutifully swallowed the mushed concoction. She was grateful for the sips of wine afterward and focused on what she wanted to ask, rather than burning sensation. "The walkers?" she whispered.

Sansa hesitated as she placed the wine cup to the table next to the bed. "Defeated," she breathed.

"And Jon?"

The Sun sister turned and smiled broadly. Her eyebrow twitched up. "That's not who you asked for the first time you roused."

Arya closed her eyes and ignored the remark. It would be worse to deny it, though it was Gendry her thoughts had returned to again and again since she'd awoken. She craved his company and dreaded his reaction to her injury. Her face pulsed in agony, mirroring her heartbeat, and a high pitched noise ears sang in her ears. A small chuckle pushed through her nostrils at the thought of caring about his response. When was she concerned what someone else thought?

"We lost so many people," Sansa said, moving towards the fire. "They fought to protect our family and Winterfell." Arya looked up as Sansa straightened her shoulders.

"Is Clegane alive?"

Sansa bowed her pretty head towards Arya, a small smile blossoming below her pink cheeks. "He is."

"Good." Arya thought of the pair in the hallway, hushed and huddled together. Eyes drifting shut, she recalled the hurried kiss Gendry gave her before the battle, the way her hands tangled into his shirt. Sleep wrapped her into dreams—dreams of battle, the heat of the smithy, and his hands pulling her waist against his body.

* * *

"Wake up, Arya."

Even blinking hurt, but she forced both eyes open to see Jon and was rewarded with a broad grin.

"Hey."

"Hey," she groaned.

He placed the cup to her lips. "Sam is here to look at your face."

"Not much to see." Her head was heavy and vague, and she knew it was milk of the poppy slipped into her wine.

The plump maester fussed and praddled on about the swelling and infection, but Arya found it hard to concentrate. She wanted to go back to sleep, let the sweet poppy do its work, fold her into the painless slumber dotted with dreams of Father and Nymeria, Jaqen and Gendry. Bits of fantasies too illusive to remember, but certain enough to chase as she let her eyes close again.

"No." Jon stroked her hand. "You have to stay awake."

She told him exactly what to do with his idea and yelped when the maester touched her cheek. "Do that again, and I'll kill you," she seethed, moving away from his fat hand.

"Don't mind her," Jon said.

"I'm just an assassin."

"Arya." Jon pulled out her name into warning. "Maester Tarly—Sam, he's a good man and an even better maester. Hush up and let him work."

Arya tried to glare are her brother, one-eyed. "Tell me what happened."

"We found you in the snow—"

"No," she whispered, flinching as the maester tentatively probed her cheek again. "The battle."

Jon sighed and sat back in the chair next to her bed, the leather creaking. There were lines at his eyes, now, but his dark eye softened when he looked at her. With a squeeze to her hand, he drew in a deep breath. "The Starks are in Winterfell. Houses Umber, Greystark, Stane, and Woodfoot of Bear Island and many Wildlings are no more."

"The walkers?"

"Beaten." Jon shifted his eyes to the maester when Sam stopped his examination. "But I will tell you more of that another day." He looked to the shuttered window. He was hiding something.

Arya relaxed into the haze of poppy when Sam washed her wound. "What about your queen?"

"You mean your queen, as well." It wasn't a question.

"Whatever."

"She is resting. As Lannister predicted, his sister betrayed the agreement and paid the Golden Company to attack our forces from the South, within hours of the Dead's arrival." She heard his free hand rub his face and he sighed again. "Without the dragons, we would not be here."

"And you," the maester breathed.

"None of that, Sam." Jon's voice held just enough edge to made Arya crack her good eye. Her brother looked from the maester to her. "Don't listen to him." He leaned forward, a smile tipping one side of his beard. "You asked for Gendry when you woke up."

Arya let her eye close again. "Shut up," she said, knowing her brother— _cousin_ —would not. They were children again, and he prodded her. It was a temptation he could not resist.

"So, you and the blacksmith?"

"So, you and the dragon queen?"

Maester Tarly snickered.

"He's been here every day, waiting for you to wake up." Jon's thumb rubbed circles on her palm. "I think that boy will make you want a house and children."

"He's not a boy. He's nearly as old as you."

"Oh, that makes me feel better about it," he said, flatly. "You'd be a stag."

"Gods, stop." She tried to shift her hips, but grit her teeth when her wounds protested. "I am no one."

Heavy footfalls slapped the floor.

"Speak of the man himself," Jon replied, voice pitching up. "Come in, Gendry."

Underneath the furs, Arya felt her heart gallop.

"Your grace. Maester Tarly." Gendry's feet shuffled across the stones towards her bed and she cracked both eyes to watch. "Arya." He kept his eyes on her, while the maester moved to speak with Jon near the door. "You look awful." He grinned and tried not to wince as he lowered himself to the chair Jon had vacated.

Her smirk ached, but she couldn't help it. "How's the shoulder?"

"Not too bad." He rolled his arm in the air.

Jon came back into view and clapped his hand onto Gendry's injured shoulder with a wicked grin. "I have duties to attend, but I leave you in this man's care, little sister."

Gendry groaned, but made no effort to move. "Thank you, your grace."

"Maester Tarly has decided to remove the stitching, since the leeches have done their work."

Arya watched the chubby man return to her side. He glanced at her and then flicked his eyes to Jon.

Jon smiled broadly. "I'll be back with your supper."

"Will you cut it into small pieces for me to chew?" she asked.

The King of the North chuckled and shook his head before he joined the steward at the door.

"My lady," the maester began, voice wobbling, "I have to remove the stitching."

"I heard."

"Arya," Gendry chastised. He nodded for the man to continue.

"It'll...sting. Your skin has fastened to it, so there will be blood."

She snorted. "I'm pretty sure I can deal with blood. Get on with it."

When the first stitch was pulled, Arya cursed and pounded the furs with her fists. Gendry stilled her flailing and Maester Tarly shifted from one foot to another.

The chair scraped the stones when Gendry pulled it closer to her head. "I'm sorry." His face was scrubbed clean, but grime was etched into the lines near his eyes. Beneath his dark eyelashes, the bluest eyes watched Arya squirm in pain. He lowered his forehead to hers, barely touching. "What can I do?" he whispered.

Arya inhaled—coal and wood and something altogether Gendry. She squeezed her eyelids, then had to ease them because of the pain. "Distract me. Take me back to when we met."

"Well…you were a boy and your hair was a mess." The weight of his face lifted, but she could feel his breath on her ear. She felt his thumb swipe her hairline. "You were a tiny, angry thing, always wanting to stab people. But you had reason. Lord Stark was everything a man should be."

Arya tightened her shoulder muscles, hearing Maester Tarly lean closer. "Yoren told me to keep to myself."

The weight of his hand disappeared from her forehead and he folded both of her hands into his calloused ones. "And you just couldn't, could you? Insulting people, waving your fancy sword." She could hear the smile in his words.

In an instant, she knew why he'd grabbed her hands when Sam tugged another stitch from her sensitive skin, earning him a new string of curses. _A bruise is a lesson...and each lesson makes us better._

"I wanted to stay with you then." Gendry's words interrupted her torture. "When you told me that we could be family."

She cracked her eyes. Gendry was to the left and the maester to the right. Arya closed them again as Maester Tarly approached with small scissors and couldn't stop the tear that pushed out.

"Back then, everything was so simple. You were a princess. I was a bastard."

"Still are," she croaked out through gritted teeth.

He tightened his hands around hers. "You like to remind me."

Arya sucked in the air through her teeth when Maester Tarly pulled two more stitches out. "Seven hells."

"But you turned out alright, m'lady." Gendry lifted her hands and she felt stubble graze the backs of her hands before he returned them to her blanket. "Survived more than any of us could have."

"How did you escape the Red Witch?"

"Sir Davos. Then I was stuck in Kings Landings for years, waiting, because I picked the wrong family."

Maester Tarly cleared his throat. "Just two more, my lady."

"Get on with it."

The stitches came out with small tugs. Arya felt the blood running down her neck and grabbed the cloth from the maester when he hesitated. "Out," she ordered. And he hurried to obey.

"Let me do it," Gendry said. "At least I can see where to wash."

Arya didn't move. At first, her stillness was from the pain, but then from observing his eyes as he carefully mopped her wound, apologizing when she twitched. He bent his head this way, and that way, inspecting his work. And she held her breath, wanting so badly to be kissed again. Even the milk of the poppy haze couldn't damper the craving that set her belly afire.

Gendry smiled. He passed his thumb across her forehead over and over, until her eyes were lulled shut. "You should sleep, m'lady."

"You should kiss me," she mumbled, heavy fingers of slumber pulling her down. And Arya didn't care whether she'd said it aloud or in her head.

* * *

 _And I'm back! Trying to wrap this bad boy up. I've already made a promise to not kill off anyone on this story_. :) ~JS


	10. Chapter 10

_Last chapter, peeps! Thanks for hanging in for this extended one-shot. AN at the bottom. And away we go!_

* * *

The feral Stark daughter remained with her blacksmith when she defied the maester's orders and left her bed chambers. He worked on hinges and locks for doors, she on avoiding people in general. She hated the way they pretended not to stare at her ruined face, finally feeling the rejection the Hound had lived with. And when even the kitchen maid, who delivered their meals to the forge would sneak a glance, Arya would escape Winterfell altogether.

Snow blanketed the grounds again, the white nothingness erasing the battlegrounds, and smothering the ash. The sun, though, would break through the clouds, littering crystals across the fields, as if everything was perfect again, sparkling and impeccable.

It was those days that led Arya to chasing away the perfection with wine or whatever she could scare out of kitchen workers. When she drank too much, Gendry would bully her into laying down on his bed behind the forge. She'd wake hours later, sometimes the next morning, the rage from the world moving on tempered by the man asleep beside her on a bedroll on the floor. _O_ _pening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth._

Syrio was right.

Later, silently, she watched his hammer swing and hit true. Each strike nailed her to Winterfell's foundation. "If I will not leave," she yelled between beats, "Will you stay?"

Gendry reminded her that she had been a Stark long before an assassin. She'd roamed the corridors of Winterfell, ever the shadow of her brothers, bloodlust absent. There had been no need for revenge, other than repaying the times Robb tripped her or Sansa tattled to Septa Mordane. No list or thoughts or murder. Though her father had his faults, she remembered his laughter most of all. And it was the memory of Ned Stark's smile that anchored Arya to the blacksmith pounding and shaping a new sigil to mount on the Eastern Gate, to replace the one ruined by the Boltons.

Gendry crooked his head back to her. "I haven't left, have I?" He shoved the metal into the furnace coals.

"There is no one to carry our family name. Bran is lost."

His hammer clattered to the work table. "You're talking to a bastard about a name." Gendry turned, wiping his hands on a dirty towel next to the hammer.

Arya wrinkled her nose. "I will be swallowed by the shadows if I stay here. I cannot fall into line with the queen's perfect thinking." She closed her eyes and pinched her nose. Jon's aunt, queen of Westeros, collector of titles, and fiancé to her brother—cousin—had off-handedly suggested an arranged marriage for the Stark daughters. Both women told the queen exactly what they thought of her idea, although Sansa had the tact to use polite words. In fact, Lady Stark took her sworn shield to the godswood that evening and returned with a new mantle she'd sewn herself, to punctuate her opinion of Daenerys' recommendation.

"I never thought you would. Let the queen think for herself. You are a Stark, a lady, a princess of the North." He stepped closer. "M'lady."

"Would you take me away?"

"Yes, if you wanted."

"Would you lord over me?"

"Not if I wanted to keep my balls."

Arya laughed. "Would you do anything I asked?"

"No."

She pulled up her eyebrows. "Brave man." Gendry had closed the gap between them enough that Arya grasped his wrist and dragged him to her. She laid her head onto his chest, and heard the thumps. Her eyes closed. His shirt was sweaty and dirty, but she snaked her free arm around his waist.

"What are you doing?" His words vibrated against her cheek.

"Listening."

His hand moved and held her head in place. "Would you take me away?"

Arya smiled into the shirt. "I cannot carry you, but you can come with me."

"Would you lord over me?"

Laughter burst from her and she looked up. "We both know I would."

He licked his lips. "Would you do anything I asked?"

Eyebrows high, she hooked one of his thighs with her heel and kept her eyes on his. "Depends on what you asked."

"Would you be my family?"

Arya stilled, heart thrumming beneath her vest. _Calm as water._ She inched her arms up to twine her hands behind his neck. Slowly and all at once, their lips met.

When they parted, Gendry rested his head on hers.

She smiled into his chest. "I just want you to know, that I asked first."

* * *

 _Extra big thanks to Winterlyn Dow. Ya'll should read her delicious stories. Thank you to the readers who've left reviews and sent encouraging PM's. Until next time! (because we all know I just can't leave Arya alone…) ~JS_


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